Robert Rorabeck Baseball Poems

Slave To Baseball

The weather is brave but a slave to baseball,
And I like that kind of weather for this
Time of year,
Because all the aspens are naked, opalescent

Some New Kind Of Baseball Game

On a wash day, the traffic streams a river.
The bears are watching from the brambles, they've
Tumbled into the briar pit for fun.
They are learning to start fires,

The Trigonometry Over The Baseball Diamonds

Not deserving the soldiers of my heavens
Here they come again-
Night and panthers and night bivouacked underneath
The stars where I

The Crestfallen Baseball Games

Then we were all developed like the pornographic butterfly
Trying to make love in a bedroom in the middle of
The afternoon while in the living room all that was on
Was séances of werewolves and soap operas:

The Baseball Games Of The Empty Airplanes

White stars underneath the palmettos—
It means another angel is falling in love—or my old
Muse's rabbits (that we thought had disappeared)
Are making love,

The Baseball Diamonds

Shadows of an ambulance in the shoulders of a
Christmas tree:
The elves seem to be telling us everything about love:
But it may just be an impersonal emergency:

The Sands Shifted Against The Baseball Games

Another living grave bleeds the flowers of night:
This is all my middle-class mind knows how—darkly obsessed—
Making love through the unadulterated anarchy of
These cul-de-sacs—one or two other feral boys lighting off

Like Yesterdays In Games Of Baseball

Manner less bandits japing at my tents,
Paging through their thesauruses—
While I am left mumbling, numberless fingers
In my mouth wanting to ride the

The Wounded Baseball Games

Songs in lines flung by hands that cannot fish—
And, maybe, do not love, of course—
Except for the little fairies on the cliffs,
That come in jubilee across the reddened saddles

By Graveyards Of Baseball

Belly fattened by graveyards of baseball—
Another startling blue jay out on the battlefields underneath
The Christmas trees and all of their weeping monuments—
Why does it have to come to this—

The Baseball Diamonds Of Your Backyards

Vespers in the early morning while the bartenders yawn,
And the crawdads flash underneath the oaken
Driftwood- maybe you’ve thrown your favorite vanity outside
The window at this time of early morning,

The Highschool Of A Baseball Game

Repeating in the lions of the gaseous promises:
They sometime get lit up, and have their song- like girls
With lips in sleds,
They go over their boreal beds, and know when they

Of Time Honored Baseball Games

Here is the prism, floating up like a mad
Scientist on Nitric Oxide:
This is the turtle dove sticking its neck into the

The Baseball Diamond Mists

These pillages of words from a mind imperfect
From kindergarten, you would think would finally grow tired
From the immaculate hedgerows of the occultish windmills;
But everyday waking up inside the thin walls of

Of Baseball Players And Really Lucky Genies

It hurts to look myself in the eye
Of gray eyed mirrors;
Hurts to come again on valentines while
You’ve been playing baseball.

The Most Beautiful Aspects Of This Baseball Universe

I hear the rumor of dancing green mermaids:
For moments they seem to be,
Leaping breathlessly and coughing from the
Traffic’s bolero;

Error Success